


Diamērizein

by sunjolras



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-06 00:55:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunjolras/pseuds/sunjolras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes peer pressure is okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diamērizein

Cosette is an enabler.

While Grantaire would happily do any number of illegal and dangerous things for her, she has a habit of encouraging the worst ideas.

Like convincing Feuilly to drink decaf for a week. No one wants to remember that one.

However, the current situation ranks pretty damn high on the list of Bad Things Cosette Wants Her Friends To Do.

"No. Absolutely not."

Grantaire repeats it firmly for emphasis, crossing his arms over his chest.

Raising an eyebrow, Cosette puts her hands on her hips and retorts, "You thought of it first!"

"Oh my god, it was a joke," he groans, internally acknowledging that it really wasn't.

Regardless, he was drunk at the time of the idea's conception, therefore it wasn't supposed to count.

Cosette scoffs, rolling her eyes. It suddenly occurs to him that they're standing in front of a tattoo parlor, proving that he's already lost a majority of the battle. There are also several people staring at them, but that's far less concerning.

"You're the one who waxed poetic about some dead Greek dude's thighs last night," she points out, not unkindly.

Grantaire flushes and looks away, biting the inside of his cheek. He doesn't want to talk about it.

"It's meaningful, in it's own way," Cosette continues, her voice softer. "It's  _you_."

She's right, as usual, and Grantaire should hate her for it. Instead, he sighs in defeat, glares when she punches the air in triumph, and kicks himself for sharing anything with her ever.

"It'll be great." She tugs him into the shop without further comment.

Grantaire prays that she's right.

-

Shorts.

Enjolras blinks.

Grantaire is wearing shorts and Enjolras nonsensically interprets this fact as a sign of the apocalypse. He can't recall a single time that he's seen Grantaire in anything besides jeans, slacks, and the occasional skirt. Frankly, the sight of his kneecaps is strange and foreign.

Then Courfeyrac whistles and slaps Grantaire's ass, breaking Enjolras out of his shock. Grantaire flips him off, sitting next to Cosette and handing her a beer. Enjolras takes a long drink of water and averts his eyes.

He honestly doesn't know what his friends are doing in his apartment. They showed up, Combeferre let them set up camp in the living room, and it all devolved from there. He's fairly certain that Feuilly and Bahorel are making out in the kitchen.

Such is his life.

Cosette giggles, drawing Enjolras' attention once more. She's curled against Grantaire's side, one hand casually draped over his thigh, fingers idly tracing over a patch of skin. Enjolras can see the edge of something that can't be a shadow under Cosette's fingertips.

"Is that...a tattoo?" Enjolras asks, narrowing his eyes.

He hears a muttered "Fuck", and Cosette nods. She flicks the side of Grantaire's leg until he sits sideways, putting the tattoo on full display for Enjolras' inspection. He slips out of his chair and onto his knees, leaning forward as far as he dares, embarrassingly aware of how suggestive their positions are.

It's one horizontal word, right in the middle of Grantaire's inner thigh, the simple black font standing out starkly from his pale skin.

_Intercrural._

He's blatantly staring, running the word over and over in his mind, and Grantaire squirms under the scrutiny. His legs spread a bit further, causing Enjolras to inhale sharply. 

"Alexander the Great," Grantaire finally blurts out, his cheeks turning red.

The arousal that races through Enjolras catches him off-guard. He chooses his next words carefully, sorting through the myths and secondhand accounts of a young king's life. "He was only defeated by one thing."

Their eyes meet, Grantaire's pupils wide and dark, and Enjolras doesn't need to finish the story.

Cosette pats herself on the back and lets Marius tug her off of the sofa.

-

Grantaire looks just as good out of those shorts as in them, spread out on Enjolras' bed like an offering. 

He's hard, and his gaze rakes over Enjolras as he undresses, like he's drinking every inch of him in and storing it away. It's surprisingly enticing and Enjolras moves to kneel over him, hands on Grantaire's hips. Grantaire hesitantly brushes Enjolras' hair behind his ear, an unexpected move that he leans into. 

"Turn over," he murmurs, kissing the edge of Grantaire's palm.

He eagerly complies, his hair falling into his eyes as he flips onto his front.  Enjolras reaches to the side to fish around in his nightstand's drawer for the unopened bottle of lube Courfeyrac gave him as a gag gift on Valentine's Day. When he pours some into his hand and slicks up his cock, he can smell some sweet, manufactured scent.

"Is that cherry lube?" Grantaire chuckles, eyeing Enjolras over his shoulder.

Enjolras taps his cheek with sticky fingers, forcing his head back down. "Shut the fuck up."

Grantaire's answering laugh turns into a choked gasp when Enjolras slips his cock between his thighs, his hands grasping at the sheets. He works his hips back in slow thrusts and Enjolras lets out a soft noise as his muscles tighten around him. He hooks an arm under Grantaire's stomach, supporting him while stroking him roughly, his thumb dragging through precome.

It's quick, nasty, their breath coming out in short pants as Enjolras thrusts against him, into the tight space Grantaire made for him. Enjolras bites down on Grantaire's neck, twisting his wrist, and the thought of his cock sliding over the word printed on the inside of his thigh, wet and easy, makes him moan.

The friction as Enjolras fucks him drives every thought from his mind, sweat gathering at the base of his spine, Grantaire falling apart underneath him. Grantaire pushes back desperately, his body jolting and arching wildly, and his orgasm seems like it's torn from him. His turns his face into the pillow, his legs clenching together almost painfully.

"Fuck, Enjolras-"

The stuttered words, his voice cracking around his name, throw Enjolras over the edge. He pulls free and comes all over the back of Grantaire's thighs and ass, stifling a stream of whimpers into his neck.

They stay like that for a few moments, Enjolras' mess dripping down Grantaire's skin, his lips resting on the mark his teeth left. Then, some semblance of coherency returning, Enjolras gently spreads Grantaire's legs apart and kisses down his body. He dips his head to lick the tattoo clean, savoring the way Grantaire trembles under his tongue. When he's satisfied, he slides back up, nudging Grantaire onto his side. They're barely touching, Enjolras' ankle brushing his foot, Grantaire's fingertips following random trails over his ribs, but it's comfortable.

"So, do my thighs rule you?" Grantaire asks, ruining the stillness.

Enjolras gives him an unimpressed scowl and pinches his nipple. Grantaire squawks, jerking away, and retaliates by kicking Enjolras in the shin. Enjolras' yelp is drowned out by a voice coming through his walls.

"Go the fuck to sleep!"

Properly chastised by Combeferre, they quiet down, tugging the blankets over themselves.

Enjolras falls asleep with his thumb drawing slow circles over Grantaire's leg.


End file.
